When, flying Herod's murderous rage,
Thou on that wretched pilgrimage
Didst gently near the virgin mother lie!
On thee the humble Jesus sat,
When thousands rush'd to Salem's gate
To see mid holy hymns the sinless man pass by.
Happy thou wert,-nor low thy praise,
In peaceful patriarchal days,
When countless tents slow pass'd from land to Like clouds o'er heaven:-the gentle race Such quiet scene did meetly grace,—
Circling the pastoral camp in many a stately band.
Poor wretch! my musing dream is o'er;
Thy shivering form I see once more,
And all the pains thy race is doom'd to prove : But they whose thoughtful spirits see
The truth of life will pause with me,
And bless thee in a voice of tenderness and love!
O, FRIENDLY to the best pursuits of man,
Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace,
Domestic life in rural pleasures pass'd!
Few know thy value, and few taste thy sweets;
Though many boast thy favours, and affect
To understand and choose thee for their own.
But foolish man foregoes his proper bliss,
E'en as his first progenitor, and quits,
Though placed in paradise (for earth has still
Some traces of her youthful beauty left)
Substantial happiness for transient joy.
Scenes form'd for contemplation, and to nurse
The growing seeds of wisdom; that suggest,
By every pleasing image they present,
Reflections such as meliorate the heart,
Compose the passions, and exalt the mind:
Scenes such as these 'tis his supreme delight
To fill with riot and defile with blood.
Should some contagion, kind to the poor brutes
We persecute, annihilate the tribes
That draw the sportsman over hill and dale,
Fearless and rapt away from all his cares;
Should never gamefowl hatch her eggs again,
Nor baited hook deceive the fish's eye;
Could pageantry and dance and feast and song
Be quell'd in all our summer months' retreats;
How many self-deluded nymphs and swains,
Who dream they have a taste for fields and groves,
Would find them hideous nurseries of the spleen,
And crowd the roads, impatient for the town!
They love the country, and none else, who seek
For their own sake its silence and its shade.
Delights which who would leave that has a heart
Susceptible of pity, or a mind
Cultured and capable of sober thought,
For all the savage din of the swift pack
And clamours of the field? Detested sport,
That owes its pleasure to another's pain;
That feeds upon the sobs and dying shrieks
Of harmless nature, dumb, but yet endued
With eloquence, that agonies inspire
Of silent tears and heart-distending sighs!
Vain tears, alas, and sighs that never find
A corresponding tone in jovial souls!
Fortunatus et ille Deos qui novit agrestes!
Virgil's Georgics.
Aн, bless'd is he! albeit unknown to fame,
Who lives with modest competence secure.
The sons of care true happiness misname;
For fancied good a thousand ills endure ;
Forsake the happy port where all is sure;
The winds defy, or trust the dangerous wave,
Or dig for sordid gain, with hands impure;
The soldier's toil, the battle's terror brave,
Though few and short are all our wants this side
the grave.
Such is his lot who, from temptation free,
Of conscience shipwreck'd and of honour sold,
Can safely sail o'er life's adventurous sea;
Nor idly change his peace for specious gold;
Amid the venal worthless tribe enroll❜d,
Whom fraudulent success and fortune gild;
Or whom the toils of guilty traffic hold:
Alas! deceived, they sandy structures build,
Whose coffers are with spoils of vile oppression
fill'd.
Such is his lot who, bosom'd mid the trees,
Where frames the cawing rook his pensile nest,
A tapering spire, a modest mansion sees,
By some kind patron's friendly bounty bless'd;
Who calls his own the seat of sacred rest;
Where reign unbroken quiet, classic ease,
The heart elate, by placid looks confess'd;
While gratitude its hourly tribute pays
To him, with sweet content and peace who crowns
What though no gilded roof his house adorn,
No sumptuous furniture, no costly plate;
Let not the sons of splendid luxury scorn
The smoother tenor of his happier state:
Their pleasures still a thousand wants create.
Simplicity within his mansion reigns;
Prudence and quiet ever guard the gate;
He knows, he feels no artificial pains;
But bless'd by golden temperance equal joys maintains.
Where the clipp'd yew tree frowns in gloomy shade,
A dragon green, or spreading peacock swells;
The grassplat smooth, the whiten'd palisade,
And pillars square, like watchful sentinels,
Explain where snug our happy vicar dwells:
While heartborn smiles sit dimpling in his face.
Exact on Sundays to the call of bells:
His weekday's dinner seals with hasty grace;
On sabbaths feasts to keep the body in good case.
A garden trim he owns with silver rill,
That ceaseless sports to music all its own;
Where nodding flowerets stooping drink their fill,
And ope gay eyes, refresh'd, fantastic grown.
And there the gaudy tulip's pomp is known;
The blushing rose, Mentor of virgin pride;
Woodbines with cumberous wealth hung cluster-
ing down;
The jasmine meek and pure; and more beside,
That make a paradise and scent the summer tide.
But most his luscious fruits with glistering eye, That clothe the sunny wall, he will commend, The while he shows how they all fruits outvie, He prunes them all, their growth his cares attend, There bids them sprucely spread, here bids them bend.
How glows the blushing peach at his command;
The nectarine rich, where summer's bounties blend,
The conscious plum that from the spoiler's hand `
Lost bloom bemoans, like worth sad-stain'd by
slander's brand.
Securely there the painted goldfinch breeds,
Securely shelter'd trills the mellow lay;
All on their downy couch his offspring feeds,
And warbles thankfulness his rent to pay.
For, happy guests! from thence no songsters stray;
For there compassion, nature's friend, they meet;
There emulative tuneful powers display;
The conscious master's daily visits greet,
And fill with grateful melody his bless'd retreat.
Not all for pleasure, herbs for use design'd
Within the garden's cultured precinct grow;
To the main chance looks forth the thrifty mind,
And substance holds above mere empty show,
'For penny saved,' a proverb well such know.
And there, with heart compact, the cabbage stands,
With trickling drops begemm'd that brightly glow.
There nodding onions ranged like marshal'd bands;
And apples dropping down that ask the gatherer's
hands.
Uprears asparagus his spiry head;
Child of the sea, snug cole in native sand;
The sluggard carrot sleeps his days in bed;
The cripple pea, alone that cannot stand,
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